Dead End
by Russet022
Summary: Sirius, just prior to the battle in the Department of Mysteries, thinks about the future, and, no matter how he looks at it, he keeps hitting a dead end.


A/N: This is dedicated to my sister, Shadow, for inspiring me to branch out and try to get inside Sirius' head instead of Remus' for a change. I've been sitting on this awhile, so I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and, before you tell me that this is not only the wrong character but the wrong book, Deathly Hallows has well and truly murdered the muse who inspired my edited, Remused _Prisoner of Azkaban. _

Disclaimer: I don't own Sirius, or any of the other characters. Harry owns Grimmauld now, and Rowling owns all the rest.

Dead End

He sat alone, watching the world spin. He knew he had to keep moving forward, even though he had no set destination. The far future was no more than a distant haze, a mere mirage that seemed unattainable. The relatively near future, however, showed no more than a dead end. He was locked in a past that he had no hope of escaping.

The dark house lay still around Sirius Black, but it was not silent. Water was dripping in the bathroom. Buckbeak was in what had once been Sirius' mother's room; it sounded like the hippogriff was shredding more of the curtains into bedding. Kreacher was rustling in the hallway, apparently on his way upstairs, mumbling curses about blood-traitors and half-breeds.

Those particular oaths led Sirius' thoughts to the only comforting sound in the entire dank house: snatches of conversation drifting down the hallway from the drawing room where Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin were seated, discussing the "duty" roster for the upcoming month. As Sirius had no wish of reminding himself of his present predicament, he had abandoned the half-finished game of chess Remus had roped him into and wandered disconsolately down the hall to his bedroom. He wondered if his best friend would ever find the time to finish the game. Sirius did not need to worry; he had time to kill.

Sirius snorted, disgusted that he had been reduced to looking forward to finishing a game of chess. Sirius had never been particularly fond of the game, but he was grateful for the effort Remus had made to spend time with him. Chess was more Moony's thing; the werewolf had been the champion of the Gryffindor tournament for—was it two or three years? Sirius could not remember. It all seemed so terribly long ago. Sirius had never had the sort of concentration or patience required to enjoy many of the hobbies Remus had.

But Remus no longer had time to sit and read for hours on end, allowing Sirius to interrupt him as many times as he wished. Tonks did not stay long into the night to chat as she had only months before. They were both far too busy for poor, old Sirius. They had no time to say more than "Hello. How are you?" and run on their way without waiting for more than an "I'm fine," which was a lie anyway.

Sirius was not fine. He was so far from being fine that he was surprised that no one seemed to notice or care. Molly Weasley, at the last meeting, had heard his perpetual plea for freedom and had called him a child.

Well, she did not know the half of it. Sirius would never have begged for anything as a child. He would rather have served a thousand detentions than plead for mercy, and he probably had. No, what irked Sirius the most was that he felt more like a child now than he had while he was in school, and he dared anyone to blame him. He was locked in a childhood cage he abhorred, taking orders from a childhood mentor, dependent on a childhood friend. He was even being hounded by his worst childhood enemy. He felt as though his life was going backwards instead of forward.

Except that if he were truly going backwards, Remus would be the less popular, dependent one, and James would come back. This led Sirius' thoughts to Harry.

It was obvious that there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Sirius was worried about Harry. It would have helped, had he been able to somehow communicate with his godson; he did not care _how_ it was accomplished, as long as it _was_ accomplished. Anyone could have managed it, had they wanted to. None of them had a price on their head. But none of them tried. They thought Harry was perfectly safe in Dumbledore's care. Well, guess what—Dumbledore was not there anymore!

He could hear Molly's voice, echoing the Headmaster's words telling him "to stay at home." He was only staying out of respect for Dumbledore, because this was not home. Once he would have taken liberties with that technicality. He loved to bend the rules. When he was younger, it had been a game. Now he was older, he was supposed to be wiser—but old dogs were reported to never learn new tricks, and Moony had always been the wise one. Remus had changed from the hesitant boy who had clung desperately to Sirius' coattails, both aghast at and fascinated by Sirius' confidence and charm. Remus was now a responsible leader, a respectable, upstanding, bloody _gentleman_ who could hold his own, even if he really was not any more self-confident than he had been in school.

And Sirius was just an ex-convict, a bad dog who was being choked over and over by straining at the leash that bound him. Really, not to play with words or anything, because that was what Moony did, Remus was an old wolf to Sirius' puppy. The werewolf had been forced to grow old before his time, and Sirius had no incentive to ever grow up. Which led his thoughts back to taking simple commands like "sit" and "stay" seriously, no pun intended.

But what if he was to take his orders "Siriusly" the next time a situation arose? If something happened to Harry, no could tell him that he could not help. There was no one—not even the four in the drawing room—who could protest. They all had enough on their plates without arguing with him. Two of them were balancing real jobs with Order work; one was shuffling a vast trade of paperwork and valuable books and items that were loaned and returned within the Order on a necessary and regular basis; and one was trying to do anything and everything he could possibly do so that no one else had to do it, without killing himself from lack of sleep between his dates with the full moon. Compared to them, Sirius felt useless. Well, he was not going to be useless anymore.

Just as he came to this conclusion, a shriek upstairs reverberated through the near-empty house. The conversation in the drawing room ceased; Kreacher's quick, shuffling footsteps were clearly heard in the not-silence of creaks and drips that was Grimmauld Place.

"Master," the house-elf growled, "the disgusting creature has done itself an injury—"

Sirius did not wait any longer. He bolted upstairs, ignoring the questioning look Tonks was shooting him from down the hallway. She was busy, and tending the hippogriff would give him something to do.

Tonks watched Sirius' flight up the stairs, and then shrugged. Whatever it was, her cousin had it under control. She turned back to the discussion, closing the door behind her.

No one heard Harry's muffled calling from the kitchen fireplace below, except Kreacher. And no one saw Kreacher, cackling quietly to himself in glee, shuffle downstairs to answer Harry's cries.


End file.
